2.539 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


SAPPHO 


OTHER 


50NGS.  ra 


f-  y 


SAPPHO 


AND 


OTHER    SONGS 


BY 


L  B.  PEMBERTON. 


"  We  think  that  ns  civilization  advances,  poetry 
almost  necessarily  declines.  In  an  enlightened 
age  there  will  be  much  intelligence,  much  science, 
much  philosophy,  etc.,  etc.,  but  little  poetry." 

•^-Macaulav~~Esaay  on  Milton, 


"The  poetical  mood  and  accomplishment  are  apt 
to  be  looked  upon  in  modern  society  as  an  impert 
inence  or  a  weakness." 

•^-Century  Mygatitte,  March,  ^Wy, 


LOS  ANGELES,  CALI 


ALL,   RIGHTS    RESERVED, 


PS 


COPYRIGHT  1895, 

BY 

L.  B.  PEMBERTON, 

LOS  ANGELES,  CAL. 


TIMES-MIRROR 

PRINTING  AND  BINDING 

HOUSE. 


LIBRARY 

533236 


"  Peruse  it  well  for  in  the  same  may  lurke, 
More  obscure  matter  in  a  deeper  sence, 
To  set  the  best  and  learned  wits  on  worke, 
Then  hath  as  yet  in  manv  ages  since, 
Within  so  small  a  little  volume  beene 
Or  on  the  sudden  can  be  found  or  seene." 

—  Thos.  Peyton  in  "  The  Glasse  of  Time." 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

SAPPPO— A  MASQUE 11 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS— 

SONG  TO  THE  SEQUOIA  GIGANTEA 60 

SONG  TO  THE  PLOWBOT 62 

QUIVERA 68 

ON  FINDING  A  ROSEBUD  COVERED  WITH  SNOW    ....  65 

To  FLORENCE 66 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE 71 

SELECTIONS  FROM  COMIC  OPERAS— 

THE  LAND  OF  COCKAIGNE 68 

IF  SOME  UNFEELING  CRUEL  FATE 68 

THE  ROSE 69 

SONG  OF  THE  FENCING  MASTER 70 

BEDOUIN  LOVE  SONG   .  71 


PREFACE. 


Sappho,  so  her  biographers  say,  flourished  about  the  year 
610  B.  C.,  and  was  a  native  of  Lesbos,  an  island  in  the  Aegean 
Sea. 

Whether  her  famous  leap  from  the  Leucadian  rock— in  con 
sequence  of  the  neglect  and  disdain  of  her  lover,  Phaon— be  true 
or,  as  her  later  commentators  would  have  us  believe,  a  cleverly 
designed  fiction,  the  fact,  nevertheless,  remains  that  she  was 
matchless  in  her  art,  and  her  name  and  works  will  be  ever  in 
timately  associated  with  the  most  perfect  and  finished  produc 
tions  of  the  poetic  mind.  For,  of  all  persons  who  have  ever 
lived,  loved,  sang  and  suffered,  she  seems  to  stand  forth  as 
the  representative  and  highest  embodiment  of  the  spirit  and 
genius  of  poetry— being,  in  fact,  even  in  h<u"  own  day,  often 
designated  as  the  "Tenth  Muse." 

At  any  rate,  the  story  of  her  tragic  fate  naturally  suggests 
the  similar  condition  to  which  the  cause  of  poetry  has  been 
reduced  in  these  modern  times,  when  the  whilom  "Heavenly 
Muse"  is  considered  as  an  antiquated  myth— a  mistress  some 
what  passe— and  her  devotees  are  looked  upon  as  guilty  of 
Impertinence,  or  suffering  from  weakness. 

If  it  were,  indeed,  true  that  the  genius  of  poetry  had  been 
forced  to  succumb  to  the  advance  of  civilization,  it  would  cer 
tainly  argue  very  poorly  for  our  boasted,  modern  civilization 
that  it  must  drive  out  all  that  is  beautiful  and  ethereal  in  life 


and  nature,  and  leave  for  our  contemplation  only  the  gross 
and  material. 

The  keen  eye  of  prophecy  has  often  discovered  the  fact  be 
fore  that— 

"the  count 

Of  mighty  Poets  is  made  up;  the  scroll 
Is  folded  by  the  muses." 

"The  sun  of  poesy  is  set,"  and  such  like  sinister  declara 
tions;  but  it  has  generally  happened  that  even  then  the  prosy 
elements  of  the  times  were  combining— like  the  darkened  cage- 
to  develop  the  embryo  songster. 

Thus  has  it  been  in  the  past,  and  sad  were;  it  if  our  advance- 
ing  civilization  should  make  the  future  any  more;  unfruitful 
of  genius  than  the  past. 

Whether  or  not  the  muse  of  poetry  shall  reassert  herself 
in  the  future,  with  her  fomer  power  and  beauty,  the  lamentable 
fact  remains,  that  she  is  now  believed  to  have  fled— like  Justice 
and  the  other  heathen  deities — from  the  earth— and  in  this  wo 
nKMirn  her  loss. 

It  might  be  well  to  add  that  the  foregoing  lines  are  not 
meant  for  an  apology,  but  merely  serve  to  introduce  the  follow 
ing  verses,  which  are  intended  for  an  original  composition— 
although  an  occasional  fragment  from  Sappho's  poems  will  be 
found  here  and  there,  and  especially  in  "Sappho's  song  at  the 
Feast  of  Hipparchus,"  where  nearly  all  the  minor  fragments 
are  woven  together  in  one  connected  piece— and  which  are  now, 
with  a  certain  feeling  of  indifference,  launched  forth  on  a  sea 
as  cold,  unfathomable  and  uncertain,  perhaps,  as  that  one  on 
which  the  divine  Sappho  desperately  threw  herself  more  than 
twenty-five  centuries  ago. 


VALE! 

Go,  little  Book,  upon  thy  way, 
I  grieve  thou  canst  not  with  me  stay, 
Or  that  thou  must  so  soon  away. 
Thy  many  faults— I  must  confess— 
I  know  them  all,  nor  wish  them  less; 
For  when  we  love  we  love  weakness, 
So  parents,  in  their  first-born,  see- 
Though  all  their  faults  there  mirrored  be— 
A  piece  of  faultless  progeny. 

Go,  little  Book,  the  first  I've  sent 
To  seek  the  great  World's  compliment. 
Forgive  me:  'tis  with  good  intent, 
And  many  a  pang  of  anxious  heart 
I  send  thee  to  the  World's  great  mart 
To  let  thee  find  out  what  thou  art. 
Go,  then,  upon  thy  way— farewell! 
Boldly— thou  hast  some  word  to  tell; 
Humbly— thou  canst  not  say  it  well; 
And,  if  a  friend  thou  canst  not  find, 
Return:  here,  in  my  arms  confined, 
Thou'lt  find— "An  Asylum  from  the  Blind!" 


PROLOGUE. 

Poet- 
It  seems  now'days,  there  is  no  use 
To  try  to  court  the  "hea,venly  Muse." 
Among  mankind  she  has,  of  late, 
Lost  something  of  her  former  state; 
So  many  scribblers  now  make  suit, 
She's  fallen  into  ill-repute. 

Friend — 

Then  throw  aside  your  useless  quill— 
The  world,  of  wish-wash  has  its  fill. 
Those  ancient  "fads,"  having  had1  their  day, 
Should  be  content  to  pass  away. 

Poet— 

Once  field  and  river,  flower  and  tree 
Hold  each  its  own  divinity: 
Unseen  celestials  everywhere 
Soothed  the  brow  of  daily  care, 
And  pleasing  fictions— -say  how  wise! 
Made  man  mingle  with  Deities. 

Friend— 

But  now  a  wondrous  change  has  crossed 
The  spirit  of  this  mighty  world. 


13 


Poet— 

The  outgrown  idols  of  the  past- 
Playthings  of  infancy— are  hurled, 
Like  some  chaste  statue  from  its  base, 
Into  the  dust. 

Friend- 
Yes,  a  new  race 

Inhabits  this  great  earth,  whose  eyes 
See  through  those  old-time  phantasies— 

Poet- 
Resolves  the  planets,  reads  the  skies, 
And  robs  earth  of  its  Deities. 

Friend— 

This  is  the  age  of  facts. 

Poet- 
No  more 

Nereids  sport  along  the  shore; 
Dim  Dryads  dwell  in  leafy  trees, 
Nor  'mong  the  hills  fleet  Oreads  run. 

No  more  Poseidon  rules  the  Seas; 
Nor  Helios  holds  the  fiery  Sun. 
Upon  the  hills  of  Thessaly 
The  clouds  still  mingle  with  the  sky; 
But,  as  the  Seasons  stand  and  wait, 


1 4 


They  open  not  those  fleecy  gates 
To  let  earth-worn  Celestials  by. 
Great  Zeus,  Phoebus,  Athene, 
Aphrodite,  Eos,  Selene 
From  this  majestic  world  have  fled. 


Friend- 
Gone  from  the  earth— 


Poet- 
Ay,  banished! 

And  all  the  light  that  with  them  shone; 
Yet  not  for  unthroned  gods  alone 
We  mourn— they  are  immortal  still, 
With  all  their  wondrous  history. 
We  mourn  that  on  this  earth  no  hill 
Is  now  devoted  to  the  Muses'  will: 
Of  all  the  brooks  that  feed  the  sea 
Not  one  can  boast  a  deity. 
Not  so  much  for  dead  Endymion 
We  sigh,  nor  enamored  Selene, 
As  disenchanted  Helicon — 
For  the  lost  waves  of  Hippocrene! 
We  mourn  that  this  great  world  should  think 
Because  those  heathen  gods  have  fled 
That  Poesie  has  now  no  brink 
Where  thirsting  souls  may  come  and  drink- 
No  sacred  ground  for  man  to  tread! 


15 


Friend— 

Indeed,  the  torch  of  Science  bright 
Has  lighted  up  this  earth  of  ours, 
And  frightened  with  its  flaming  light 
Laughing  fays  from  moonlit  bowers; 
Genii  and  gnomes  from  golden  caves; 
Mermaids  and  sirens  from  the  waves. 
Now  in  its  livid  light  we  see 
The  haunted  hills  of  Thessaly 
Shorn  of  their  fair  divinity- 
All  silent,  tenantless,  and  bare! 

Poet— 

Your  words,  alas!  are  all  too  true— 
Our  craft  is  left  with  naught  to  do. 

Friend — 

Then  let  the  argument  end  here— 

Poet— 

And  I  have  worshiped  at  a  shrine 
Dishonored— when  I  thought  divine. 


Nymph,  Goddess,  whatsoever  thou  wert 
That  once  inspired  the  poet's  heart! 
Spirit  of  song!  thy  former  haunt 
Where  wood-vines  creep  and  wild  flowers  flaunt 
Their  modest  beauty  to  the  breeze 


1 6 


And  thick-leaved,  languor.breathing  trees 
Make  coverts  cool  and  musical; 
Where  rills  glide  by  with  rhythmic  fall, 
And  azure  skies  o'erarch  them  all — 
Such  spots  the  pensive  eye  in  vain 
May  search  and  hope  to  find  again 
The  glorious  splendor  of  thy  reign. 
Gone,  gone  art  thou,  and  with  thee  ah 
That  is  of  earth  ethereal! 


SAPPHO. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Fair  maid,  who,  in  those  favored  Isles, 
Where  heaven  bends  o'er  with  endless  smiles, 
Inspired  the  strain  sweet  Sappho  sung; 
If  still   the  Lesbian  hills  among. 
Forgive  my   folly,   if  I   strive 
Thy  melting  numbers  to  revive; 
In  this  far  land  of  wild  and  wood, 
Where  never   Nymph  nor  Naiad  stood: 
In  this  stern  age,  when  men  would  scorn 
A  Dryad's  wail  or  Triton's  horn; 
When  Virtue,  Justice,  Beauty,  Love, 
Mind  itself,  but  mere  sensations  prove: 
When  "Nothing"  rules  o'er  Nature  dead, 
And   life  is  made— a  strife  for  bread; 
In  such  a  land,  and  such  a  time, 
'T  may  folly  seem— perchance,  'tis  crime 
To  think   of   sentiment  and   rhyme, 
Or  ask  they  heaven-tuned  voice  to  hear- 
Still,  sing!  and  to  my  idle  ear 
'Twill  be  like  songs  the  master  hears, 
But  cannot  sound  for  other  ears; 
Or  like  the  form  the  sculptor  sees. 


i 8 


But  from  his  chisel  ever  flees. 

'Twill  be  like  fragrance  from  the  rose, 

When  Earth  is  wrapped  in  chilly  snows; 

Or  like  the  lily  in  the  green— 

'Tis  beauty  still,  though  still  unseen. 

Sweet  be  the  strain,  such  as  of  yore 

Resounded  on  fair  Lesbos'  shore! 


SAPPHO, 
i. 

Come  now,  divine  shell,  become  vocal  for  me.1' — 
Sappho-- Fragment  45. 

How  deep,  and  clear,  and  soft  and  blue 
The  cloudless  sky  shuts  in  our  view — 
A  veil  of  velvet  to  the  eye 
That  screens  earth  from  infinity! 
With  twinkling  look  the  dimpled  sea 
Bears  home  a  far-fetched  melody: 
The  laughing  waves,  with  upturned  faces, 
Come  dancing  in  like  lovely  Graces: 
The  odorous  wind  that  o'er  me  flies 
Bears  more  than  fragrance  to  the  skies, 
And  all  things— e'en  this  form  of  mine 
Seems  fraught  with  something  more  divine. 

The  earth,  the  air,  the  sky,  the  sea 
All  breathe  of  love  and  harmony: 
They  murmur  of  that  one  sweet  chime 
That  echoes  on  thro'  endless  time- 
To  whose  melodious  tones  above 
The  stars  in  solemn  concord  move, 
And  faintly  to  whose  whisperings  sweet 
The  human  heart,  at  times,  doth  beat 


20 


E'en  trees  and  rocks  make  melody- 
Then  hand  my  trembling  harp  to  me, 
When  such  celestial  sounds  distil 
And  sweet  delights  all  sense  o'ercome: 
When  singing  creatures  all  creation  fill, 
Why  should  the  heart  of  man  be  still, 
Why  should  his  lips  alone  be  dumb? 


O    L/esbos!  Island  of  the  fair! 
Thy  sea  serene,  thy  cloudless  sky 
Soft-beaming  sun,  ambrosial  air 
That  bears  voluptuous  murmurs  by — 
These  move  my  rapturous  soul  to  fly 
Above  the  earth,  beyond  the  sky! 
In  scenes  like  this  who  could  deny 
Thy  heaven-born  charms,  sweet  Poesy? 


In  heaven,  'tis  said, 

Almighty  Jove, 

With  bended  head, 

Lists  to  the)  strains  of  lova 

Apollo  tunes  his1  trembling  lyre; 

The  Muses'  transcendent  strains  ascend. 

In  rainbow-hued  attire 

Fair  Hebe  pours 

Her  copious  showers; 
The  listening  gods  engrossed  attend. 


21 


Might  not  this  Isle  more  nearly  seem 
The  paradise  of  which  we  dream? 
Might  we  not  feel  in  some  degree 
The  raptures  of  a  deity? 
Blest  as  Immortals  are  not  we— 
Have  we  not  Love  and  Harmony? 


"Now   Love  masters  my  limbs,  and  shakes  me,  fatal  creature, 
bitter-sweet." — Sappho  Fragment  40. 

Love!  e'en  at  the  word 

All  other  sounds  are  hushed,  unheard. 

Love,  thy  very  name 

Kindles  anew  the  quenchless  flame. 

My  bosom  rages,  burns  again 

As  when  across  the  waving  plain 

The  flames  are  blown  thro'  ripened  grain. 

O,  Love!  long  have  these  lips  of  mine 
Essayed  to  sing  thy  joys  divine; 

But  all  in  vain! 

For  when  Love's  soft,  warm  breath  I  feel 
Upon  my  cheak  and  forehead  steal. 
My  soul  doth  melt  and  melting  flow. 

O,  joy!    Oh,  ptiin! 

Oh,  bitter-sweet! 

Weaver  of  fictions  neat! 
Words  are  but  winds  that  idly  blow— 
They  cannot  tell  the  joy  I  know! 


22 


ii. 

"•Far  sweeter  of  tone  than  harp,  more  golden  than  gold"- 
Sappho,  Fragment  122,  123. 

The  waves  that  wanton  o'er  the  beach 
Have  each  a  wondrous,  silvery  speech; 
The  wind  that  spreads  his  spicy  wings 
Sings  as  he  flies  and  flying  sings; 
The  rills  that  trickle  to  the  sea 
Glide  to  a  rhythmic  melody, 
And  e'en  the  stars  that  brightly  shine 
Sweetly  sing  in  strains  sublime. 

The  waves,  the  wind,  the  stars,  the  sea— 
These  all  are  Nature's  poesy. 
With  hushed  wind  and  voiceless  wave 
This  earth  would  seem  —  a  silent  grave! 
E'en  Love  would  lose  one  half  her  charms 
If  Poesy  were  taken  from  her  arms. 

If  Love's  sweet  muse  did  not  portray 
The  joy,  the  bliss,  the  pain,  the  woe, 
The  heaven  that  only  lovers  know— 
How  dreary  life  would  pass  away! 
No  tender  thought,  nor  soothing  verse, 
No  pleasing  sonnet  to  rehearse- 
How  long  would  seem  each  weary  day! 


PART  II. 


SAPPHO    AND    HER   GIRL-FRIENDS. 


'I yearn  and  seek." — Sappho,  Fragment  25. 


Song  of  Erinna. 

My  heart— it  is  a  harp 

That  moves  with  every  wind. 
A  word,  a  thought,  a  sigh 

An  answer  therei  will  find. 


How  many  a  human  harp 
On  earth  is  never  tuned; 

But  e'er  to  passion  wild 
And  endless  discord  doomed. 

How  many  a  harp,  alas! 
Gives  one  sad,  ceaseless  moan; 
No  higher,  softer  strain- 
Life's  dreary  monotone! 

How  oft  of  nought  they  tell 
But  wrongs,  oppression  sore, 


24 


Or  'neath  affliction's  hand 
They  snap  to  sound  no  more. 

No  more?    Or  can  it  be 
In  happy  scenes  somewhere 

These  inharmonious  hearts 
A  rapture  yet  will  share? 

But  oh,  how  blest  is  he 

Whose!  soul  is  harmony. 
Who  e'en  on  earth  can  catch 
Heaven's  far-off  symphony. 

Nearest  the  gods  above, 

Blest  of  all  men  is  he, 
Whose  soul  can  echo  forth 

The  "Eternal  Melody." 

O,  sisters;  dear,  proud  must  he  feel 
Who  sees  the  world  before  him  kneel; 
Whole  nations  raise  their  humble  prayer- 
A  smile,  a  fav'ring  glance  to  share; 
Yet,  could  I  choose,  and  Fate  would  give, 
Far  humbler  were  the  life  I'd  live. 
I'd  rather  lie  in  mossy  nook, 
Where  shadows  play  o'er  rippling  brook, 
And  let  my  yearning  spirit  drink 
Immortal  draughts  from  heaven's  brink. 


25 


Or,  lying  thus  in  traneed  mood, 
Be  lulled  by  sounds  that  thro'  the  wood. 
From  meadows  green  and  throbbing  deep 
Soothe  one  to  dreams  and  heavenly  sleep. 
The  soul  then,  dreaming  that  'tis  free, 
Bounds  upward  thro'  infinity, 
Seeking  again  with  joy  to  be 
Absorbed  into  Deity. 

Oh!  could  I  catch  but  one  sweet  chime 
That  echoes  soft  thro'  endless  time- 
Nature  and  Creation's  rhyme! 
Oh!  could  I  strike  but  once  the  note 
Of  those  dim  melodies  remote— 
So  softly  sung,  so  seldom  heard; 
But  which  the  heart  hath  ever  stirred— 
J  ar  happier  than  the  monarch  I; 
My  work  would  live,  tho'  his  should  die! 


Song  of  Anactoria. 

•'  This  lot  may  I  win,  golden-crowned  Aphrodite." 
Sappho,  Fragment  o. 

O  sister,  thou  may'&t  long 
To  sing  the  deathless  song. 
And  win,  perchance,  immortal  praise: 
Men  may  in  camp  and  field 


26  jiapplto. 


Seek  death  with  sword  and  shield 
To  wear  awhile  the  coraq'rors'  bays. 

Let  those  who  wish  engage 

In  toils,  and  warfare  wage, 
Or  court  for  aye  Fame's  empty  charms. 

Let  me  remembered  be 

Not  by  posterity; 
But  close  within  my  loved  one's  arms, 

There  let  me  lay  me  down — 

Unknowing  and  unknown! 

"  This  will  I  now  sing  deftly  to  please  my  girl-friends." 
Sappho,  Fragment  u. 

Erinna — 

But  Sappho,  guardian-mother  dear, 
Say  why  so  sad  dost  thou  appear? 
Your  loving  girl-friends  all  entreat 
To  hear  once  more  thy  accents  sweet. 
Oh!  breathe  again  that  magic  spell 
That  comes  but  from  thy  lips  and  shell. 

Anactoria— 

Our  idle  songs,  Sappho,  forgive, 
If  such  thine  ear  doth  vex  and  grieve. 
We  all  with  words  and  looks  beseech 
The  favor  of  thy  silvery  speech. 
We  hang  upon  thy  lips  and  drink 
Like  bees  upon  the  clover  pink. 


27 


Sappho — 

Alas!  sweet  maids,  I  cannot  sing; 
My  thoughts,  disturbed,  are  wandering. 
But  could  aught  on  this  earth  incline 
My  thoughts  to  flow  in  rhythmic  line; 
If  power  of  music  in  me.  were, 
At  sight  of  things  so  pure  and  fair— 
Thy  rosy  arms  and  love-lit  eyes. 
Thy  thousand  winning  witcheries— 
My  soul  naught  else  could  do, 
But  pour  its  fullness  forth  to  you; 
Blest  by  such  love  as  thou  dost  bring; 
Poor  were  the  soul  that  could  not  sing. 

Timesi  are  when  e'en  the  dullest  ear 
Celestial  quiring  sweet  can  hear. 
Moments  when  the  ignoblest  soul 
Soars  high— beyond  the  earth's  control. 

Some  time  in  every  life,  I  ween, 
The  poorest  soul,  however  mean, 
As  pure,  as  holy  rapture  feels 
As  e'er  thro'   Sappho's  bosom  steals. 
For  once  they  catch  the  glorious  strain 
Of  life  and  love  and  being. 

Again, 

The  loftiest  soul  that  ever  furled 
Its  pinions  o'er  this  abject  world— 
To  whom,  thus  sporting  in  the  skies, 


28 


Mankind  gaze  with  unfeigned  surprise — 
At  times  no  more  could  soar  and  sing 
Than  could  the  mountains  upward  spring. 
Drunk   with   sweets,   like   butterflies; 
Folding  its  wings,  it  sits  and  sighs. 

Anactoria — 

Alas!  has  some  keen  sorrow  clipped 
Thy   spirit's  pinions?     Hast   thou   sipped 
Of  some  sweet-sick'ning  poison-dew, 
And  loath'st  the  sun  and  heavens  blue? 

SappJio — 

Ah,  no,  'twas  but  an  idle  dream — 
A  whim  of  sleep;  but  still  doth  seem 
More  like  reality  to  me 
Than  what  I  feel  and  know  and  see. 

Methought  I  sat  one  summer  eve 
Where  climbing  vines  o'er  branches  weave; 
Close  by  a  mossed,  pellucid  pool, 
Where  fragrant  shade  made  covert  cool; 
And.  wearied  with  the  day's  repose, 
Had  sunk  into  a  restless  doze— 
A  sort  of  conscious  sleep;  when  soon 
I  saw  the  rising,  full-orbed  moon 
Spread  o'er  the  earth  her  golden  gleam. 
Near  by  a  music-murmuring  stream 
Between  its  perfumed  banks  meandered, 


29 


Till  dimly  o'er  steep  rocks  it  fled 
Into  the  sea. 

Here  seemed  to  stand 
Some  fav'ring  Genius,  from  whose  hand, 
In  rich  profusion,  fell  sweet  peace 
And  health  and  loveliness;  increase 
Of  joys  from  day  to  day,  and  still 
Some  new  delight  showered  o>t  my  will. 

It  was  the  land— it  seemed  to  me— 
Of  Love  and  Youth  and  Harmony. 
At  once  the  moon,  with  lurid  glare, 
Rolled  swift  thro'  black'ning  clouds;  the  air 
Was  filled  with  mutt' rings  deep  and  loud, 
And  shrieks  and  groans;  the  forests  bowed 
Before  the  gale,  or,  breaking,   fell. 
Each  sight  new  terror  seemed  to  tell : 
The  stream   that  gentle  music  made. 
Now  raging  rushed  thro'  wood  and  glade, 
And  plunged   headlong  into   the  sea, 
Whose  billows  roared  in  fiendish  glee. 
With  thunder  sound  the  breakers  tail 
Did  beat  the  cliffs— which  crumbling  fall 
Piecemeal. 

Primeval  wilderness 
It  was:  a  savage  world  unblessed 
By  all  that  gives  us  peace  and  rest 
And  happiness! 

I  shudd'ring  turned, 
When  lo!  some  sleight  of  dreams  unlearned, 


30 


The  scene  had  quickly  changed.    Again 
'Twas  peace  and  joy  and  beauty.    In  vain 
The  billows  raised  their  roar;  a  strain 
Of  more  prevailing  sweetness  swelled 
From  rock  and  nook  and  grassy  field; 
And  there,  beside  the  deep-voiced  sea, 
A  youth  sat,  leaning  pensively 
Upon  his  harp,  and  fingering 
An  unthought  tune.    His  face  would  bring 
Shame  to  the  ruddy  cheeks  of  Phoebus, 
Or  of  Dawn.     The  laggard  wind  thus — 
Sad  as  the  sighing  Atys  tree- 
Bore  his  complaining  song  to  me: 


"To  the  Charming  Nymph,  Poesie.v 
(i) 

O  gen'rous  world!  wherefore  despise 
Those  strains  that  warble  from  the  skies— 

On  earth  to  dwell  ? 
Why  do  ye  hold  in  high  contempt 
Those  very  dreams  ye  once  have  dreamt; 

But  coula  not  tell? 

(2) 

There  is  no  heart  that  doth  not  warm 
At  Beauty's  chaste  and  virtuous  form ; 
Where'er  't  may  be. 


3i 


Then  wherefore  blindly  thus  refuse 
And  treat  with  scorn  the  charming  Muse 
Of  Poesie? 


Oh!  nymph  so  fair  is  found  nowhere 

• 

But  on  the  stars  in  midnight  air 

That  beam  so  bright! 
Whoe'er  could  view  that  form  unmoved, 
Or  see  those  loving  eyes  unloved- 
Must  have  no  sight! 

(4) 

Her  form  so  graceful,  tall  and  slender. 
E'en  Paradise  in  all  its  splendor 

Could  not  surpass, 
Her  face  is  fair  as  lilies  are 
When  off'ring  up  their  evening  prayer, 

'Mid  dewy  grass! 

(5) 

Her  eyes  divine  like  planets  shine, 
And  light  with  cheerful  rays  benign 

Man's  bitter  lot! 

Yet  mild,  her  modest,  queenly  gaze, 
As  e'er  the  day-star's  steadiest  rays— 

She  changes  not! 

(e; 

No  fairer  foot   nor  nymph,   nor  fay, 
From  forest  flowers  e'er  brushed  away 


32 


The  morning  dew. 

Yet  not  in  form  lies  all  her  charm; 
For  like  the  sun,  thro'  clouds  and  storm, 

Her  soul  shines  through! 

(7) 

Then  why.  O  world,  withhold  your  praise- 
From  her  whose  brows  are  wreathed  with  bays 

Time   ne'er   can    blight: 
For  nymph  so  fair  is  found  nowhere, 
But  on  the  stars  in  midnight  air, 

That  beam  so  bright! 


Thus  was  his  song  which  scarce  was  done, 

Till   all   the    sea   its   roar   begun, 

And   Earth   its   turmoil  to   repeat, 

A  loud  wave  shook  his  high-poised   seat, 

Which,  tott'ring,  fell,  and  far  did  throw 

Him  headlong  in  the  deep  below. 

I  jumped;   methought  'twas  I   that  sunk 

Beneath   the  waves.     I   shrieked — and  drunk 

With  such  ai  sick'ning  thought  and  sight— 

I  woke,  to  find  'twas  dead  of  night, 

And  tossing  on  my  bed  I  lay 

With  troubled  thought  till   break  of   day. 

But,  waking,  still  I  heard  waves  crash, 
And  still  before  my  eyes  would  flash 


33 


The  dreadful  scene.    The  sea  would  close 
Quickly   above  him   and    impose 
A   sort  of   curioiis  spell   whereby 
His  words  and  looks  were  instantly 
Obscured  and  blotted  out.     Then  I 
Would  fall,  and  in  my  fall,  it  seemed, 
That  all  I .  sang  or  hoped  or  dreamed 
Were  swallowed  by  the  restless  wave. 
This  was — it  seemed — the  yawning  grave 
The  future  had  in  store  for  me— 
The  oblivious  fate  of  Poesie! 

This,  maids,   is  why   I  cannot  sing. 
My   Muse  sits  mourning— folds   her  wing. 
Oh!  may  the  time  be  far  removed, 
When  all  we've  sighed  for,  all  we've  loved. 
When  all  we've  lived  for,  all  we've  sought, 
Shall  sink  uncared-for  from  man's  thought, 
And  Earth,  with  all  it  might  attain, 
Plunge  into   barbarous   night   again! 


PART    III. 


SAPPHO  AT  THE  FEAST  OF  HIPPARCHUS. 


"(?  muse  of  the  golden  throne,  raise  that  strain  which  the  reverend 
elder  of  Teas  used  to  sing  so  sweetly." — Sappho,  fragment  26. 

Hipparclius— 

Now,   poets,   let   the   heavenly .  strain   ascend— 
Our  minds  to  lighten  and  from  cares  unbend. 


Now,  first,  Alcaeus  let  they  skill  divine 
With  lofty  words  suire  noble  theme   combine: 


Then   sage   Anacreon,    forever   young, 

Let  gladdened  hearts  sip  from  they  honeyed  tongue. 


Sing,  next,  sweet  Sappho— wonder  of  all  time! 
Whose  every  word  is  sweetness  all  sojblime. 


And,   last,   Erinna,   let  us,   wond'ring,   know 
What  thoughts  in  thy  young  breast  doth  glow. 


Song  of  Alcaeus. 


At  thy  command,  O  Prince  renowned, 
Full   many   flattering   strains   resound 


35 


Where'er  the  good  assembled  are, 
They  breathe  thy  name  with  every  prayer; 
When  mighty  men  in  conclave  meet, 
Thy  words  and  deeds  they  oft  repeat; 
The  peasants  on  their  homeward  road, 
The  air  with  profuse  blessings  load; 
The  very   slaves  toil   as  they   &ing, 
Blessing   the  day   that    made  thee   King. 


Thy   empire,  on   its  mountain  seat, 

The  sea  lies  suppliant  at  its  feet. 

Yet,  when  yon  proud  Sea's  waves  were  young, 

When  first  these  hills  swelled  from  its  breast— 

And  mankind  to  their  green  slopes  clung, 

Like   young  birds   clam'ring   in   their  nest — 

Where  was  thy  glory  then,  O  Greece? 

Where  was  thy  crown  and  laurel  brow? 

Or  let  the  minstrel's  numbers  cease, 

And  where  would  they  be  even  now? 


Hush  the  rude  songs  the  barda  have  sung, 
Or  let  the  minstrel's  harp  be  now  unstrung, 
This  glorious  realm,  lord  of  the  Sea! 
A  wild  unheard-of  waste   would  be. 


But  lest  my  words  convince  not  thee, 
I'll  sing  at  thy  request. 


36  jiapplxcu 

The  Birth 

Of  the  Fair  Muses,  and  Their  Worth. 

"Twas  ages  past— 

When   Ocean's  waves  were  young, 
And  Earth  was  wild — as  new  worlds  are. 
With  turmoils  vast, 
And  elemental  war. 

Ere  man — brought  forth  for  toil  and  care— 
From  rough,   hard   rocks  and  pebbles  sprung 
Ere  breath  of  music  moved  the  air; 
But  mutt'rings  thick  and  angry  cries 
The  forests  filled  and  chafed  the  skies. 

'Twas  then. 

In  that  old  time, 

When  mighty  Titan  hosts  combine- 
In  battle  'gainst  the  King  of  heaven— 

And   strive   to   climb 
Olympus'  battlements:   unfurl 

Their  rebel  banners  there:     defy 
The  power  of  Zeus,  and  hurl 

Him  from  his  throne  on  high. 

But  hear! 

With  thunder  sounds. 
The  Earth  rebounds— 

The  Titans  come 
To  break  o'er  heaven's  wall. 


37 


In  vain!     Again  outdone. 
The  giants  groan — 

Grimly   the  monsters   fall,   and   disappear— 
Whelmed  and  o'erthrown! 

The  long  conflict  is  ended, 
The  huge  Titans  distended 
Deep  in  Tartarus. 
Now  on  Olympus 
See  the  great  Zeus, 
Victorious 

Stand. 
Glorious 
His   triumph   was— greatest 

Of    masteries   grand 
Over  rebellion   and  scorn, 
Tho'  Time  shall  her  latest 

Page  wait  to  adorn; 
But  why  the  bowed  head. 
That  look  of  joy  fled, 
And  sighsi  drawn   heavy   and  long? 
Hushed  asre  the  throng, 
In  wonder  and  fear, 
Zeus's  sadness'  they  fear. 

"Our  joy  isi  incomplete; 
Silence   is  equal  to   defeat 
Tho'  victory  some  joy  has  lent, 
The  soul  to  gladness  must  give:  vent. 


38 


The  voice  of  joy 

Is  song  alone. 
Earth's  dull  alloy 

Melts  in  its  silver  tone. 
So  let  there  be  Maidens  Nine, 
Whose  duty  it  shall  be  to  sing  of  things  divine!' 


Oh.  hear! 
How  sweet  and  clear 

Their  rising  strain 
Salutes  the  ear! 

But  higher,  sweeter  still  they  sing, 
Until — such   ravishment   they    bring— 

Their  full  refrain 
With  such  delight  doth  fall, 
It  doth  the  gods  themselves  enthrall. 

Higher,  higher  still  their  notes,  until 
Their  spell  the  heavens  and  earth  doth  fill! 

Now,  see  the  stars  glisten. 

While  the  worlds  listen. 
And  the  moon  in  heaven  stands  still! 

See  the  wide  ocean. 

Cease  its  wild  motion. 
And  the  little  streams  stop  on  the  hill! 


39 


Now  all  the  woods  wild. 

With  songsters  are  filled, 
Who,   in   chorus,  try  to  engage. 

Now  the  winds  whisper 

To  the  leaf,  as  they  kiss  her. 

And  the  brook   wanders   by. 

With  a  musical  sigh, 
And  old  Ocean  swells  with  the  rage. 


The  waves  and  the  leaves, 
Such  melody  weaves 
O'er  the  rock  and  the  stream. 
That  one  nearly  would  deem 

Them  human: 
Till  the  Earth  doth  seem 

Like  a  beautiful  woman. 
Seen   in  a   dream. 


How  sweet  those  strains  in  heaven  fell 
The  gods  alone  in  heaven  can  tell! 

No   mortal    ear. 

Such  ravishment  may  safely  share — 
No  tongue  on  earth  its  bliss  declare! 


Then,   rapture,   cease, 
My  soul  release. 
Dr   captive    keep    forever! 
The  pleasing  chains 


40 


Of  thy  sweet  strains, 
Do   not   too   rudely   sever; 
But,   if  my  farewell  I   must  taxe. 
Oh!  let  my  senses  softly  wake. 


Song  of  Anacreon. 

How  Love  Languished  Until  Beauty  was  Born. 

Forlorn  the  restless  God  of  Love, 
From  his  ambrosial  bowersi  above. 
To  Cypria's  rose-hued  island  strayed. 
Slowly  he  came,  and  long  delayed, 
As  on  his  mind  some  sorrow  weighed: — 

"Tho'   other  hearts  'tis  mine  to  fill. 
With  blissful  Love's  electric  thrill. 
Why  should  not  I  some  rapture  know, 
And  in  my  own  breast  feel  the  glow? 
Poor  mortals,  by  my  art,  less  wise, 
See  angels  in  each  other's  eyes; 
While  I,   the  god,   with  all   my  power, 
See  nothing  I  can  all  adore!" 

Thus,  sighing,  on  the  sward  he  lay, 
And  to  his  bitter  grief  gave  way. 
The  King  of  Heaven,   attentive,  heard 
The  litle  Conqueror's  piteous  words— 


4T 


Smiling,  his  mournful  plaint  to  hear, 
Yet  sought  he  some  relief  to  bear. 

Meanwhile,  across  the  heaving  sea, 

The  god  lay  gazing  vacantly. 

When  lo!  from  out  the  twinkling  deep, 

Behold.  Incarnate  Beauty  leap! 

"Joy!  Joy!"  the  glad  god  cries; 

"No  more  I'll  seek  the  sober  skies; 

For  Beauty  to  the  earth  has  come. 

And  earth,  henceforth,  shall  be  my  home!" 


(1) 

The  stars,  in  their  turn,  about  the  fair  moon. 
Now  veil  their  bright  eyes  as  she,  at  her  noon, 
With   lustrous   splendor,   full-orbed,   doth    illume 

All  the  earth  with  silver. 
From  clear,  stilly  skies,  thro'  tall  apple-trees, 
Cool  murmurs  around  us  the  star-born  breeze; 
While  softly  exhales  from  quivering  leaves 

The  sweet  dews  of  slumber. 

(2) 

The  wiles  of  the  dark-eyed  daughter  of  Night 
Enwraps  the  charmed  world— subdued  with  delight; 


42 


With  bright  and  hopeful  eyes,  Phoebus  of  Light, 

We  invoke  thy  favor! 

Then  down  from  thy  throne  gold-broidered,  O  Queen, 
Great  Goddess  of  Beauty,  deathless,  serene, 
Make  haste,  and  mixed  with  delight,  let  us  drain 

The  nectar's  sweet  savor. 


And  since  gods  disdain  the  brow  that's  ungraced — 
While  he,  who  appears  with  sweet  flowers  chaste 
And  fair,  the  foremost  of  all  is  e'er  placed 

With  choicest  blessing— 

Around  our  foreheads  fair  maidens  shall  twill, 
With  soft  and  fair  hands,  cool  wreaths  of  the  dill, 
And  lilies  inwove  with  sweet  asphodel 

And  roses  refreshing. 


Now  let  the  heavenly  strain  aspire— 
Such  as.  O  Muse,  the  Teian  sire. 
From   his  divinely-tuned  lyre 

Has   waked   forever. 
And  ye,  pure  Graces,  rosy-armed, 
Haste  ye  with  all  your  thousand  charms— 
Meek  eyes,  fair  cheeks  and  voices  warm- 
Aid  my  endeavor! 


43 


(5) 

Mild-eyed  Selene,  thrice  prolong 
Thy  stay  with  fair  Endymion; 
For  joys  so  sweet  are  ne'er  too  long, 

Nor  known  too  often! 
Too  soon  beside  Cocytus'  stream, 
We'll  wander  nameless  as  our  dreams, 
Or  sit  and  weep— so  tear-besteamed. 

Our  souls  will  soften. 

(6) 

Nay!  heart  of  mine,  grieve  not  again; 
For  those  who  weep  must  weep  in  vain. 
And  most  of  all  the  mournful  strain 

Befits  not  thee: 

For  deep  within  this  world's  great  heart, 
Thou  hast,  I  think,  a  goodly  part, 
And  years  will  smile,  as  they  depart, 

Upon  thy  mem'ry. 

(7) 

At  least,  'tis  joy  I  ne'er  can  tell, 
Beside  the  Muses'  deep,  clear  well. 
To  sit,  and  from  their  sweet-voiced  shell 

Drink  inspiration. 

'Tis  then  I  feel— the  fervor  treasure- 
Till  every  feeling  is  a  pleasure- 
Till,  soul-entranced.  I  cannot  measure 

Mind's  animation, 


44  j^apptxcr* 


(8) 

O  Aphrodite,  golden  crowned, 

Immortal  Queen,  star-throned,  renowned, 

Weaver  of  wiles,  of  ways  profound, 

Hear  me,  I  pray! 

Me,  whom  thou'st  often  heard  afar. 
And,  yoking  up  thy  silvery  car, 
Came  floating  thro'  the  soft  mid-air 

Without  delay. 

(9) 

Down  from   thy   father'si  house  of  gold. 
Cleaving  thin  clouds  thy  chariot  rolled, 
Till  at  my  door  the  birds  thou  told 

To  go  their  way. 
O  Blessed  One,  in  thy  high  home, 
As  thou,  to  me,  wast  wont  to>  come 
And  stay,  now  let  me  to  thee  run 

And  with  thee  stay! 

(10) 

Goddess  of  Beauty,  thou  dost  know 
At  first  thou  taught'st  my  heart  to  glow; 
Till  now  within  my  breast  doth  grow 

A  subtler  flame! 

Then  grant  I  may  be  known  with  thee — 
Thy  ally  to  posterity! 
That  with  thy  praise  may  sometimes  be 

Mingled  my  name! 


45 


(ID 

Indeed,  'tis  just  that  we  who*  plot 
And  plant  the  seeds  of  deathless  thought, 
Should  reap  some  harvest  for  our  lot- 
Some  memory: 

For  death  is  but  calamity — 
Such  the  immortal  God's  decree: 
Had  it  been  good  and  fair,  surely. 
They,  too,  would  die. 

(12) 

Then  pardon  us  our  idle  folly — 
Poor  we!  soul-sick  with  melancholy — 
If  for  the  laurel  and  the  holly 

Our  brows  yearn  ever. 
Let  him  contemn  our  ways  who  will, 
And  of  contempt  take  ample  fill; 
"Twill  soon  be  o'er,  and  he  will  still 

Lie  dead  forever. 

(13) 

Nor  will  there  any  metn'ry  be 

Of  him  on  earth  hereafter;  for  he 

Has  gathered  not  from  th'  immortal  tree 

The  roses  of  Pieria. 
E'en  in  the  house  of  Hades  dread. 
Obscurely  shall  his  footsteps  tread, 
And,  flirting  'mong  the  shadowy  dead, 

Drag  out  existence  dreary- 


46 


Song  of  Erinna. 


I  have  drank  of  the  fount, 

Where  the  Naiades  dwell, 
And  my  soul  it  doth  mount 

And   heavenward   swell. 

Like  the  tremulous  waves  of  that  well. 


I  have  drank  of  the  fount  where  the  Naiades  dwell, 

And  the  wealth  of  my  joy  I  am  longing  to  tell. 

I  cannot  yet  sing  as  Alcaeus  has  sung; 

Nor  in  notes  such  as  roll   from   Sappho's  sweet  tongue, 

But  I   somehow   have  drank   from   the   Muses'   deep   spring 

And,  tho'  dumb.  I  still  would  endeavor  to  sing. 


'Tis  a  fount  that's  been  drank  of  for  many  a  year: 
But  its  waves  are  as  sweet  as  ever  they  were. 
The  heart  is  as  deep,  and  love  just  as  strong. 
Then  why  can  we  not  its  numbers  prolong? 
There's  more  in  the  heart  than  has  ever  been  told, 
And  its  throbs  seem  to  tell  us  'twill  never  be  cold. 

Then,  come,  ye  but  late  devotees  of  the  Muse. 
And  bathe  your  young  brows  with  Aonian  dews! 
Let  us  never  despair,  never  tarry,   nor  tire, 
'Till  we've  kindled  anew  the  heavenly  fire, 
Fear  not  the  great  Past,  with  its  glories  remote- 
Know  the  lyre  has  lost  not  one  single  note! 


47 


The  Past  is  grand,  overwhelming,   sublime, 

With  the  glorious  conquests  of  man  over  Time; 

Still   the   Present   is   more  than  the  Past   has  e'er  been; 

For  it  holds  all  the  Past  with  its  labors  could  win. 

And  the  Future  is  grander  by  far  than  them  all; 

For  in  it  shall  man  rise  or  most  gloriously  fall. 

Oh!  why  should  the  Muse  of  Humanity  die? 

Her  numbers  grow  stronger,   brighter  and   high. 

She  feeds  and  sings  from  humanity's  breath, 

And   her   heart   will- throb  with   it  till   humanity's   death; 

Then,  mourning,  away  to  some  wilderness  scene. 

She'll  return   once  again  to  her  earliest  thepae. 

Then  drink  of  the  fount. 

Where  the  Naiades  dwell, 
And  let  your  soul  mount 

And  heavenward  swell. 

Like  the  tremulous  waves  of  that  well. 


PART  IV. 
SAPPHO'S  MUSINGS. 


'•'•Break  not  my  spirit  with  anguish  and  distress.,   O  Queen." - 
Sappho,  Part  of  Fragment  I. 

Is  this  the  land  where  roses  bloom, 
And  myrtle  green  and  ivy  grows; 

Where  olives  hang  in  leafy  gloom, 
And  perfume-breathing  zephyr  blows? 

Is  this  my  native,  once-loved  Isle. 

And  this,   the  silvery   Sea. 
That  lulled  me  with  its  song  and  smile 

To  slumber  in  my  infancy? 

Are  these  the  skies  of  sable  stole 
That  once  bent  fondly  over  me; 

And  these  the  scenes  that  fired  my  soul, 
And  taught  my  harp  its  harmony? 

Is  this  the  harp,  now  breathless,  still, 
Whose  voice  charmed  Earth's  remotest  shores  ? 

Am  I  "the  Fair,"  "the  Miracle," 
"The  Muse  that  all  the  world  adores?" 


49 


Alas!  discordant  now  the  strain 
I  fondly  hoped  could  more  than  please. 

My  voice  for  verses  yearns  in  vain — 
They  move  alone  from  minds  at  ease. 

How  oft  I've  sat  within  this  grot, 
And  sang  in  happier  days  gone  by. 

When  e'en  the  winds  would  whisper  not— 
The  waves  would  hush  to  harmony. 

And  he,  the  youth  whom  I  adore, 
For  whose  sweet  sake  I  tuned  my  lyre, 

Who  sat  entranced  in  dayst  of  yore, 
And  fanned  with  praise  the  gentle  fire — 

Oh!  where  are  now  those  honeyed  words, 
Those  winning:  smiles,  embraces  dear? 

Must  I  be  now  unpraised,  unheard- 
No  loving  words,  nor  list'ning  ear? 

Say,  why  must  I  deserted  die, 
In  shame  and  anguish  and  despair? 

Can  I  but  sing  of  peace  and  joy — 
But  feel  the  thorns  these  roses  bear? 

Thou  Star  that  bringest  all  to  rest; 

The  cattle  from  the  day's  alarms, 
The  young  birds  to  their  shelt'ring  nest, 

The  lover  to  his  loved  one's  arms. 


50 


To  me,  alas!  what  dost  thou  bring? 

Delightful  privilege!  to  sit, 
Beside  the  Muses'  troubled  spring, 

And  let  my  tears  flow  into  it. 


Song  to  Phaon. 

O  Phaon.  'mid  thy  dazzling  joys, 
Hark!  and  hear  a  sadder  voice. 
Leave  awhile  thy  painted  toys; 
From  the  wildering  round  of  pleasure, 
Come,   trip   with   me  one  little  measure. 
Leave  awhile; 

Thy  dear  delights. 
Come  and  smile 
On  me  to-night. 


Me,  who  gave  thee  Song's  bequest; 
Me,  who  in  thy  youthful  breast 
First  infused  Love's  sweet  unrest; 
Who  taught  thy  simple  heart  to  know 
That  Beauty  is  a  heavenly  show- 
And  shineth  bright 

In  mortal  eyes, 
To  show  the  light 
Of  Paradise. 


51 


0  Phaon,  beauteous  one,  return! 

In  teaching  thy  young  heart  to  yearn 
My  own  hath  learned  to  madly  burn. 

1  taught  thee  all  thoui  dost  enjoy, 
And  shall  I  now  prove  but  annoy? 

Thou  art  my   care. 

With  thee  I  stay, 
In   dreams  as  fair 

As  beauteous  day. 

Oh!  let  me  but  thy  smiling  see. 
I  ask  thee  not  to  yearn  for  me; 
But  only  let  me  burn  for  thee, 
And  ever  at  thy  side  to  raise 
To  thee  my  undespised  praise: 
To  sit  but  near 

And   sing   the   while. 
That  thou  mayst  hear 
And  on  me  smile. 

Thou  grace  and  glory  of  thy  age! 
Cease  thy   erring  pilgrimage. 
Let  toys  no  more  thy  time  engage — 
A  great  heart  lives  and  throbs  for  thee; 
Then  cease  thy  heartless  coquetry, 
Or  soon  will  die 

Those  darling  joys, 
Thou  prizest  so  high 
In  thy  dear  toys. 


52 


Once  I  was  thy  delightful  prey- 
Sicilian  damsels  now  hold  sway. 
Oh!  where  will  next  thy  footsteps  stray? 
Where  some  new  fancy  may  be  found 
Will  praises  of  thy  voice  resound? 
Matrons  of  Nisa. 

Sicilians  fair, 
Send  back.  I  pray, 
This  wanderer! 


Song. 

" Lesbian  Damsel,  Fare-thee-well." 

Much  as  my  heart  doth  yearn  for  thee, 

And  bitter  tears  bedim  mine  eye; 
"Tiis  not  that  thoui  art  gone  from  me— 
But  that  thou  wentest  silently. 
At  least  there  could  as  well 
From  those  fair  lips  have  fell:— 
"Lesbian  damsel. 
Fare-thee-well !" 

Could  I  have  had  one  last  embrace, 
Or  ling'ring  looked  into  thy  eye, 

'Twere  joy,  at  least,  from  thy  dear  face 
To  read— tho'  sad — my  destiny. 


53 


To  still  my  troubled  breast 

Thou  mightst  have  said  at  least:— 

"Lesbian   damsel. 

Fare- thee- well!" 

My  life  has  dwindled  to  a  sigh, 

And  better  'twere  it  had  an  end. 
God  knows  'tis  hard  enough  to  die; 
But.  oh!  to  die  without  a  friend! 
And  yet  how   sweet  were   death 
If  thou  couldst  o'er  me  breathe: — 
"Lesbian  damsel. 
Fare- thee- well !" 


PART  V. 


ON    THE    CLIFFS    OF    LUCATE. 


' For  they  whom  I  benefit  injure  me  most." 
Sappho,  Fragment  12. 

Slowly  the  sun  sinks  in  the  sea, 

And  length'ning  shadows  gloomily 

Creep  o'er  the  world   and  me. 

Sadly  the  moon  climbs  up  the  sky, 
With  mournful  look  and  silently — 
It  speaks  no  note  of  joy. 

Sweetly  from  every  vale  and  tree 
The  nightingale  pours  out  her  glee— 
'Tis  sweet  to  all  but  me. 

Merrily,  as  the  waves  are  free. 
The  sailor's  song  rings  o'er  the  sea- 
Merry  to  all  but  me. 

Softly  the  rills  flow;  but  the  sea 

Devours  at  last  their  melody— 

And  thus  'twill  be  with  me. 


55 


The  jZLean  Sea. 


I  stand  upon  thy  stony  brink, 
And   look  into  thy  waves,   O  Sea. 

Which  stretching  deep  and  far  doth  seem 
To  compass1  all  the  world  and  me. 

I  see  thy  circumambient  waves, 
With  restless  sweep  surge  to  and  fro; 

While  echoing  thro'  my  aching  soul 
A  sadness  deep  doth  likewise  flow. 

For  vague  and  dim  there  doth  appear 
Before  me  now  that  dreadful  hour. 

When  all  terrestrial  things  shall  lie 
Submerged  by   thy   all-levelling  power. 

Mountains  and  empires,  monarchs,   thrones. 

Glories  of  art,   Egypt,   Greece.  Rome, 
Temples    of    gods— ay!   everything 

Shall  lie  dissolved  in  Ocean's  foam. 

Oblivious  Sea,  upon  thy  brink 
I  pause  in  wonder  most  profound. 

A  suppliant— with   harp  unstrung, 
And  laurelled  brow  with  cypress  bound. 

What  salted  offering  is  there, 
Libation  sweet  or  sacrifice; 


56 


What  precious  incense  may  I  bring 
To  thee  that  thou  wilt  not  despise? 

Is  there  no  price  at  which  to  buy 
Release  from   Death's  oblivious  thrall? 

Is  there  no  haven  where  one  may 
Escape  the  common  fate  of  all? 


Hymn  to  Apollo. 

Phoebus  of  Light,  Immortal  Youth, 
Splendor-robed,   from   thy   throne  of  Truth 
And  Beauty,  laurel-crowned,  in  sooth, 

Oh!  hear  my  prayer. 
If,  with  thy  iris-mantled  maidens  three, 
Thou  flpod'st  the  halls  of  heaven  with  harmony; 
Or  with  thy  flaming  charioteer  dost  flee 

Thro'    soft   mid-air: 

Incline  to  me  thine  ear,  I  pray! 
To  me,  thy  life-long  votary. 
Long  has  my  gaze  been  far  away 

To  see  thy  light. 

Joy  it  has  been  to  my  sad,  eager  eyes 
To  see  thy  glory  beaming  thro'  the  skies. 
And  love  for  thy  fair  day  and  sweet  sunrise 

Has  brought  this  night 


57 


Thy  light  that  so  elates  my  mind — 
Inspires  my  soul— to  it  mankind. 
With  dull,   thick  eyes  are  either  blind 

Prom  choice  or  birth. 
Indeed,  this  day-recurring  appetite 
It  sates  not;  nor  low,  sensual  delight 
Provokes  nor  gratifies— hence,  in  their  sight 

"Tig  nothing  worth. 

Yet  to   my  thirsting  soul  'tis  drink. 
Sweet  as  is  slumber  wheu't  doth  sink 
On   eyelids  tired,   when   they   wink, 

Seeking  repose. 

Thus  has  a  mighty  gulf  between  us  grown: 
Their  eyes  look  not  into  my  eyes  as  one 
Would  who  sees  there  no  'fault  he  would  disown; 

But  like  one's  foes. 

O  thou,  who  in  the  heavens  hast  thy  home. 
How  joyful  Eairth  is  to  behold  thee  come, 
Wreathing  thy  smiles,  enlivening  hope  in  one, 

With  thy  warm  breath; 
But  when  thy  last  beam  fades  away 
Hope  leaves  us  joyless:  with  thy  ray, 
Then  cold  and  gloomy  Night  holds  sway, 

And  whispers  death. 

Where  cool  Libethra's  waves  retreat. 
The  nightingale  sings  sadly  sweet. 
Is  that  the  fate  we  all  must  meet, 
Father  of  Song? 


58 


If  I  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  have  ever  wronged, 
With  some  false  note  of  harmony  prolonged. 
Or  praised  myself  when  praise  to  thee  belonged, 
Forgive  the  wrong. 

A  stranger  in  my  native  land — 
Outcast,   despised  one— yet,   whose   hand 
Has  increased  all  of  Greece  that's  grand 

And  most  enduring — 

Stories  a\nd  themes  of  everlasting  worth; 
Immortal  flowers  that  spring  above  the  dearth 
And  bloom — the  light  and  glory  of  the  earth 

Ever  alluring. 

O  thou,  who,  seated  by  the  Delphian  hearth— 
The  unmoving  centet  of  revolving   earth- 
Doth  read  of  what  the  future  shall  give  birth, 

Hear  thoui  my  cry! 

Grant  that  ere  Death  my  song  o'erpowers, 
This  hope  may  sweeten  those  sad  hours:^ 
"Tliy  light  that  lights  this  world  of  ours 

Shall  never  die!" 

Here  in  the  gloom  I  stand  alone: 

My  words  like  hollow  sounds  have  grown: 

My  mourning  Muse,  filled  with  the  moan, 

Longs   for   repose. 

Dim  as  the  dying  echoes  from  my  throat, 
My  form  shall  soon  on  yon  dark  billows  float. 
Blest  were  I  would  the  careless  world  but  note 

And  mend  my   woes. 


59 


Epilogue. 


Ages  ago  from  stern  I>eucadia's  rock, 

The  Lesbian   Muse — neglected,   and  the   mock 

Of  fritt'ring  worldly  minds— did   madly  throw 

Herself   into   Aegea's   waves   below. 

Thus  was  the  warmest  flame  that  ever  thrilled 

The  human  frame;  the  highest  art;  the  most 

Divine  and  perfect  harmony  once  stilled, 

And  from,  this  earth  of  ours  forever  lost. 

Now  has  this  busy,  wise-grown  world  again 

Declajred  the  poet's  labors  are  in  vain. 

Once  more  the  frenzied  strain— the  artless  song, 

"Hs  claimed  by  men  'tis  useless  to  prolong; 

And  carefully,  in  deep  Oblivion's  sea, 

A  grave  have  they  prepared  quite  tenderly 

Where  thou,  poor,  childish  Muse  of  Poesie* 

May,  henceforth,  lie  in  sweet  obscurity. 

Farewell,  fair  Muse!  altho?  unworthy  be 
The  halting  strains  of  niy   poor  minstrelsy; 
We  mourn  thy  loss,  as  one  who  filled  with  grief 
Must  mourning  sigh,  and  sighing  find  relief. 
We  weep  as  those  who  hear  the  cold  earth  fall 
Upon  a  loved  one's  coffin-lid,  like  rain. 
But  still,  like  them,   a  hope  o'ershadows  all— 
We  hope  that  sometime  yet  thou'llt  rise  again. 


SONG  TO  THE  SEQUOIA  GIGANTEA. 


Prize  poem  read  before  the  Unity  Club  of  Los  Angeles  at  the 
Poet's  Contest,  November  29th,  1893. 

Is  there  no  limit  to  thy  upward  course. 

No  bounds  to  thy  temerity, 

Thou  massive,  heaven-aspiring  tree? 

What  awful  deity  stood  at  thy  birth 

And  cast  thy  horoscope?     What  mighty  force 

Impelled  theef  first,  firm-rooted  in  the  earth, 

To  forge  up  thro'  the  white  clouds'  billowy  sea 

Until  thou  seeim'st  at  last  to  touch  the  sky. 

And  pierce  with  green  its  azure  canopy? 

How  far  hast  thou  determined  yet  to  spread 
Thy  branches:  how  high  rear  thy  lofty  head 
Above  the  stable   earth   thou  standest  on: 
But  in  thy  proud  growth  seemest  still  to  scorn? 
Wouldst  thou  the  battlements  of  heaven  o'er-scan 
And  make  a  Babel-tower  of  thy  huge  form? 

Gigantic  tree,  great  monarch  of  the  wood, 
Eternal — evergreen, — the  unsubdued, 
What  mockery  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 
Ambition's  struggles,  sorrow,  pain  and  tears! 
Stupendous  sarcasm  on  the  fate  of  man — 
His  flitting  life,  small  ways  and  sickly  plan! 

How  little  dost  thou  heed  the  waste  of  time, 
The  war  of  elements,  swift  lightning's  flash, 
Slow,  sure  decay,  or  lev'ling  earth-quake's  crash! 
The  scorching  sun-rays  of  a  tropic  clime, 


6 1 


Force  of  strong  winds,  friction  of  rain, 
And  all  that  follow  in  destruction's  train- 
All  have  conspired  to  bring  about  thy  fall; 
But  yet  art  thou  above— beyond  them  all! 

Proud  as  an  eagle's  flight  thro'  empyrean; 

Straight  and  true  as  an  archer's  arrow  keen; 

Erect  as  set  by  some  huge  plummet  lice; 

Firm  set  and  old  as  Egypt's  pyramid — 

Huge  obelisk  of  everlasting  green! 

What  message  hast  thou  from  the  world  divine— 

What  mighty  secrets  in  thy  bosom  hid? 

Here  at  thy  foot,  in  adoration  meek, 

I  humbly- bow,  and  in  my  weakness  feel 

There  is  a  sublime  something  thou  could'st  speak 

Which  simple  words  of  mine  cannot  reveal. 

I  hear  a  deep-toned,  mystic  murmuring; 

It  moves  afar-off  and  high-up  among 

Thy  softly-rustling  leaves.  Whence  has  it  sprung? 

What  new  decree  to  mortals  wouldst  thou  bring? 

Solemn,  sublime,  thy  everlasting  song, 

Thou  ancient  oracle  whose  frenzied  tones 

On  winds  of  prophecy  are  borne  along: 

No  wailing  cry  of  long-borne  wrongs:  no  groans 

Of  falling  dynasties:  no  bleaching  bones 

Strewing  the  blood-soaked  battleground  of  kings; 

No  dark  idolatry,  nor  fetich  stones. 

Here  does  no  poisoned  blood- taint  from  the  past, 

Nor  former  rude  traditions  hold  thee  fast; 

Thou  hast  a  voice  that  breathes  of  better  things-— 

The  hope  and  key-note  of  humanity! 

Dim-rustling  in  thy  branches  are  the  wings 
Of  destiny— prophetic  murmurings 


62  f^iscetlaneotis. 


Of  grander  themes  and  triumphs  yet  to  be; 
For  thou  dost  seem  to  me, 
Gigantic  tree,  to  be  the  image  and 
The  emblem  of  the  land 
Tha.t  nourished  thee! 


SONG  TO  THE  PLOWBOY. 

A  song  to  the  sturdy  plowboy, 

A  song  to  his  unsung  worth! 
He  turns  the  sod,  and  sows  the  seed, 
And  tills  the  crops  that  nations  feed!. 

His  father  is  king;  by  right  of  birth, 

He.  too,  is  king  of  all  the  earth. 
Proud  emperor's  thrones   the  plowman 

They  cost  him  weary  years. 
The  spoils  of  war  his  trophies  are— 

They  cost  him  blood  and  tears. 

I  love  the  ragged  plowboy. 

I  love  his  manly  worth! 
He  feeds  the  rich,  and  clothes  the  great; 
He  owns  the  land,  and  rules  the  state. 

By  virtue  rare,  and  right  of  birth, 

We,  hail  him;  king  of  all  the  earth. 
He  bears  the  work  that  millions  shirk, 

He  fears  no  mortal's  frown. 
With  laurel  bough,  then  wreathe  his  brow 

A  king  should  wear  a  crown! 

A  song  to  the  humble  plowboy, 
With  brawny  arms  so  swarth! 
True,  unpretentious  nobleman, 
The  world  may  mock  thee,  Censure  scan, 


63 


And  in  thy  ways  find  cause  for  mirth; 

But  Honor  still  deplores  thy  dearth— 
And  loud  would  raise  her  notes  of  praise 

To  blazon  thy  fair  name: — 
Whose  hands  disdain  a  guilty  stain, 

Whose  thoughts  dream  not  of  fame. 

I  love  the  merry  plowboy — 

A    biessing  on   his   birth! 
He  cheers  with  song  his  lowly  hearth, 
And  whistles  Care  from  off  the  earth. 

At  home,  abroad,  in  peace  or  strife, 

He  leads  the  same  brave,   honest  life. 
Long  life  and  joy  to  the  poor  plowboy, 

As  he  whistles  o'er  the  farm. 
He  grows  our  wealth;  the  world  itself 

He  moves  with   his  brown  arm. 


QUIVERA. 

Steep  are  the  heights!  where  glory  leads; 

Weary  the  path  that  leads  to  fame. 
The  hero  toils;  the  warrior  bleeds; 

The  martyr  dies — to  save  a  name! 

Who  weave®  the  broidered  stole  of  song- 
Trimmed  o'er  with  tinkling  chains  of  rhyme 

Must  move  Thought's  massive  beam  along, 
And  sound  with  care  each  separate  chime. 

Fame  is  not  all  an  upward  flight,    . 
A  giddy,   reeling,  glorious  dream; 

But   toil— consuming  mind   and   might- 
Lights  up,  with  life,  the  meteor-gleam. 


64 


Whoe'er  would  change  man's  common  doom, 
A  something  more  than  man  must  be; 

Who.  mocking  fate,  time  and  the  tomb, 
In  Death  o'ercomes  mortality. 

The  names  that  Clio  loves  to  keep 
Are  those  whom  Fate  seems  most  to  foil. 
While  others  laugh,  these  few   must  weep: 
While  others  sleep,  they  still  must  toil. 

Such  are  the  truths  I  learned  from  thee— 

Thou  star-eyed  child  of  destiny! 
Who—ever    on  life's  stormy  sea — 

Hast  kept  thy  gaze  fixed  on  the  sky. 

Born  to  subdue,  War's  dread  alarm 
Was  o'er  thy  lonely  cradle  blown; 

Reared  in  the  tempest  and  the  storm, 
How  lusty  are  thy  sinews  grown! 

In  infancy,   like  Hercules. 

When  men  shrank  back  with  fright, 
Two  monster  serpents  didst  thou  seize 

And  bravely  strangle  with  thy  might. 

With  one  hand  broke  the  fetters  wide 
That  held  the  slave  from   freedom's  goal: 

And  with  the  other  threw   aside 
The   grinding  shackles   from   the   soul. 

Then  o'er  thy  generous  prairies  ran 

This  low,  but  glorious  decree: — 
"The  body  and  the  soul  of  man 

Within  my  borders  shall  be  free!" 

No  fabled  cities  towering  high; 
Nor  streets  wide-paved  with  pearl  and  gold; 


65 


No  glittering  treasures  met  the  eye 
Of  those  old-time  explorers  bold: 

But  now.  in  this  maturer  age, 
Thy  lap  a  wealth  of  plenty  holds: 

To  man  thou'st  left  a  heritage 
Worth  more  than  all  their  pearls  and  gold. 


ON   FINDING   A   ROSEBUD   COVERED   WITH 
SNOW. 

In  this  lone  spot  I  did  not  think 

To  find  a  flower  so  fair— 
With  robe  of  green  and  lips  of  pink— 
Whose  tender  beauty  now  must  shrink, 

And  lose  its  fragrance  rare. 

Here  'mid  the  hind'ring  weeds  and  stone, 

Thou   luulst  thy   lowly  birth. 
When   wintry   winds  kept  dismal   moan, 
Thou   pushed   thy   way,    unseen,    unknown, 

Up  thro'   the  cheerless  earth. 

Till  now,  alas!  ere  thy  full  bloom, 

Stern  fate  has  cut  thee  down. 
Soft  winds  shall  sigh  above  thy  tomb. 
And   gentle   dews  weep  o'er   thy   doom 

From  yonder  skies  that  frown. 

But  thy  sweet  lips  shall  ne'er  unfold; 

Thy  beauty  reach  its  prime. 
Thou  ne'er  wilt  bless  this  hillside  cold, 
Nor  cheer  the  wayside  wand'rer    old 

With  hint   of  things  divine. 


66 


Sad  is  thy  fate,  poor  rosebud  sweet, 

By   frosts  unkindly  chilled! 
Fair   promise   of   a  life   complete, 
Fond  hopes  and  plans, — ambitions  fleet! 

Lie  broken  now  and  stilled. 

What  holy  purpose— passion  pure — 

Did  thy  fair  form  enclose? 
Wha.t  dreams  of  life  and  love's  rapture? 
What  thoughts  induced  thy  look  demure, 

Thou  sweet  and  lovely  roise? 

Sad  is  thy  lot,  and  sad  to  me 
The  thoughts  thou  dost  recall— 

Of  one  who,   young  and    fair,   like   thee, 

In   sweet    and   virgin   purity, 
Did  thus  untimely  fall. 

O  gushing  tears,   fill  not  my  eyes; 

And,  throbbing  heart,  keep  still! 
Beneath  some  other,  sunnier  skies, 
My  tender  flowers  both  shall  rise. 

Where  frosts  shall  never  kill. 


TO   FLORENCE. 

Let  baser  souls  besiege  the  bowl, 

And  drain  its  madd'ning  joy: 
No  dreams  of  wine  can  equal  mine, 

No  power  on  earth  destroy. 
Let  Hindoo  brew  his  arrack  &tew 

On  Ceylon's  sunny  isle: 
Let  Serian   seek  his  opiate  reek 

To  drown  the  world  awhile; 


67 


Let  bards  of  yore  drain   hellebore. 
And  vaunt  their  sacred  ground; 

E'en  Celestials  sup  their  nectared  cup — 
Tho'  Hebe  herself  hand  it  round. 

One  look  of  thine's  worth  all  their  wine — 
All  care  it  doth  beguile, 

And  joy  supreme  conies  like  a  dream, 
When  thou  dost  kindly  smile. 

The  form  I  see  is  reality- 
No   phantom  of   the   bowl: 

That  very  flame  inhabits  thy  framo 
That  kindled  the  stars  of  old. 

Thy  look  of  love  would  marble  move- 
It  turns  the  Earth  to  Heaven! 

Liet  bards  of  yore  their  potions  pour, 
And  founts  to  them  be  given; 

No  Pierian  spring  I  ask  to  sing— 
Thy   charm   more  than   suffices. 

At  sie-ht  of  thee  my  soul  leaps  free, 
And   up  to   Heaven   rises. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  COMIC  OPERAS. 


"The  Land  of  Cockaigne" 

There's  a  magical  Isle  in  these  mystical  seas, 
Where  the  mythical  people  do  as  they  please. 
Oh!  a  wonderful  land  is  this  land  so  fine— 

With  its  days  so  quiet, 

Its  nights  full  of  riot, 
Its  delicate  ease  and  its  "charmed   moonshine." 

With  no  care  nor  hurry. 

With  nothing  toN  worry — 
Oh!  there  is  the  spot  for  me  and  for  you; 
For  there— in  that  land — there  is  nothing  to  do! 

There's  a  mysterious  king  in  that  magical  Isle, 
Whose  reign  is  a  spring  of  perpetual  ..smile. 
Oh!  a  wonderful  king  is  the  king  so  fine; 

For.  wherever  he  goes, 

By  magic  there  grows* 
A  pageant  so  gorgeously  rich  and  sublime! 

And  once  every  year, 

This  king  comes  here 

With  a  pageant  that  nothing  on  earth  can  outshine — 
And  no  bounds  can  the  mirth  of  the  people  confine. 


If  Some   Unfeeling  Cruel  Fate. 

If  some  unfeeling,  cruel  Fate 
Us,  unforeseen,  should  separate, 
And  you  afar  be  forced  to  roam; 


69 


Though  other  friends  you  there  may  find— 
Oh!  promise  me  you'll  bear  in  mind 
The  happy  days  we  here  have  known. 
My  heart  for  thee 

Shall    ever   yearn: 
Oh !   promise   me 
You  will  return! 

While   in   some  distant  place  you   dwell. 
To   love   new   friendships   may   impel 

And  thrill  your  heart  as  ne'er  before. 
Somewhere,  perchance,  your  eye  may  meet 
Some  form  more  fair,  some  face  more  sweet; 
But  never  one  who'll  love  thee  more. 
My  heart  for  thee 
Shall  ever  yearn. 
Oh!  promise  me 
You    will    return! 


The  Rose. 

What  is  there  fairer,  rarer  than  the  rose, 
When  first  its  flushing:,  blushing  beauty  shows, 
As  its  tinted,  timid  leaves  unfold 
Tender  hues  of  crimson,  pink  or  gold? 

If  within  your  heart  there  grows 

A  feeling  you  would  fain  disclose — • 
Yet  prattling  words  not  wish  to  speak— 

A  rose  may  be  your  messenger. 
A  skillful  tnrow. 
A    gentle   blow 
Upon  your  loved  one's  cheek, 

Softly,  surely,  will  your  cause  declare. 


70  j&elettinns. 


Theire  is  no  fairer,  rarer,  finer  way 
For  a  maid  her  passion  to  disclose 

Than  the  gentle  blow— Love's  tender  play! 
Of  a  perfumed,  lovely  rose. 

This  against  your  loved  one's  cheek 

More  than  words — than  volumes  speak. 


Song  of  the  Fencing  Master. 

I  wield,  I  wield  a  deadly  blade— 
The  art  of  fencing  is  my  trade. 
I  teach  men  how  to  thrust  and  parry, 
Of  dangerous  risks  to  be  quite  chary. 
I  teach  them  how  to  cut  and  slash, 
Broad  swords  to  whack  or  rapier  flash. 
I  wield.  I  wield  a  deadly  blader— 
The  art  of  fencing  isi  my  trade. 
Whick — whack — click — clack ! 
Like  a  flash,  we  cut  and  slash, 
Light— bright— too  swift  for  sight, 
Our  blades  so  keen  before  thee  gleam. 

But  swifter,  keener  than  my  blade, 
Flas»h  the  eyes  of  one  fair  maid. 
Sharper,  surer  is  the  wit- 
All,  indeed,  must  yield  to  it. 
The  arms  of  war  I  do  defy; 
From  no  mortal  foe  I  fly; 
But  this,  I  own's,  beyond  my  skill— 
I  cannot  fly,  I  cannot  kill! 

Whick — whack — click — clack ! 

Our  blades  so  keen  before  thee  gleam. 

Light— bright— snd  is  my  plight! 

This  maiden's  might  upsets  me  quite. 


flections.  71 


Bedouin  Love  Song. 

Breath  of  my  body!  light  of  my  eyes! 
Unless  I'm  mistaken — you  are  a  prize. 
How  I  existed  ere  I  loved  thee, 
Is  matter  of  deep  conjecture  to  me; 
Whether  I  lived  on  flesh  or  on  fruit, 
What  thou  canst  provide  hereafter  will  suit 
Here  in  thy  arms  forever  I'll  lie, 
If  thou  canst  so  live — siurely,  I  shall  not  die, 
O  loveliest  dream,  say  how  soon 

Will  you  bind  up  my  poor  heart's  scars? 
Tell  me— how  much  more  of  this  tune— 
Mu&t  I  measure  my  love  in  bars? 
O  breath  of  my  life, 
Now,  come,  be  my  wife; 
For  thou  art  my  sun  and  my  moon- 
To  say  nothing  about  the  stars! 


Farewell  to  the  Muse. 

Thou  power  that  has  ruled  me  thro'  youth, 
'Tis  time  thy  dominion  should  cease: 

Tho'  undrained  are  tho  fountains  of  Truth, 
This  "deep  drinking,"  I  feel,  must  decrease. 

Although  there  aire  things  I  would  utter, 
And  thoughts,  p'raps  too  sweet,  to  be  said; 

Just  now  it's  a  question  of  butter, 
And  the  miserable  problem  of  bread. 

O  Muse!  thy  short  stay  has  been  sweet, 
Thy  voice,  I  assure  you,  most  dear; 

But  while  I've  been  scanning  thy  feet, 
I  have  lost  my  own  standing,  I  fear. 

Tho'  few  are  the  songs  I  have  sung; 

Tho'  seldom  my  efforts  were  blest— 
There's  water  just  now  on  my  tongue 

And  an  aching  void  under  my  vest. 


72 


Oh!  gladly  I'd  stay  with  thee  still, 
And  hug  thee,  sweet  phantom,  forever; 

But  the  landlord  will  come  with  his  bill, 
And  it's  sloppy  to  move  in  this  weather. 

The  minstrels  of  the  air  do  not  sing 
When  storms  and  misfortune  hang  over— 

If  they'd  half  my  troubles  on  the  string, 
They'd  conclude  they're  a  long  ways  from  clover. 

My  lyre  has1  been  only  a  toy, 

I  scarcely  have  yet  learned  a  chord; 
But  I'll  just  hand  it  down  to  my  boy, 

And  go  out  and  cut  wood  in  the  yard. 

If  Fortune  shall  favor,  I'll  see  thee  again. 

And  sing  with  thee  worthier  lays; 
But  now  moves  me  a  different  strain— 

The  mortgage  that  soon  we  must  raise. 

There's  been  ever  a  vague,  sweet  something, 

I've  la/bored  in  vain  to  express: 
But  this  won't  paint  the  house  in  the  spring; 

Nor  buy  our  new  baby  a  dress. 

I  have  watched  for  the  floodtime  of  feeling, 
And  the  fancies  oft  borne  in  its  flow: 

But  the  truth's  just  now  over  me  stealing— 
That  the  coal  in  the  bin's  getting  low. 

So.  away!  reams  of  paper  and  quill; 

Away,  with  your  lyrics  and  sonnet! 
Henceforth,  'twill  require  all  my  skill 

To  provide  for  the  corning  spring  bonnet. 

I'm  too  old  to  be  "courting,"  they  say, 
So,  farewell!  my  sweet  spirit  of  yore: 

But,  remember,  should  you  pass  by  this  way, 
The  latch-string  hangs  out  side  on  our  door. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


1  .1 


NOV  28  19TJ 


Form  L9-10m-3,'48  ( A7920 )  444 


ilfi?1 


